Thursday, 27 March 2014



She’s pouting alright
This pale-skinned woman who might look her age
I cannot tell, I’m just the selfie.
I have no judgement
Just reflect who she might be
With the right light
The right angle
The right life.

You might look in her eyes
But you’ll find nothing there
Just squashed down emotion
Eaten, smoked, drunk
Distracted by drama
Talked over with laughter
Bottled up
Like shame at a wedding.

You could kiss her neck
She’d close her eyes
And in that moment she’d be closer
Much, much closer to me.
Look deeper, look in
Do you dare?
To see her bare
Naked skin

A red raw bleeding weeping woman
With foundation smoothing off her edges
Eyeshadow brightened eyes
Lengthened lashes
Full lips reddened pinker
Than her beating heart.
She smiles, that’s true
But not for you.

And to show my poem's flaws up (!!) I also want to share Plath's poem Mirror. The 1950s selfie xx


I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

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